


Naked, Vulnerable, Distracted

by pennywife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Faceless Arya, First Time Together, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 02:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: Arya thought Sandor Clegane had died those many moons ago. When she sees him entering a White Harbor tavern she disguises herself, set on killing him. Only, this isn't a tavern. And Arya's not so sure she truly wants him to die.





	Naked, Vulnerable, Distracted

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, alright, so this is really just porn for the sake of porn. Wrote this for shits and giggles, mainly. Probably gonna be really out of character (especially on Arya's part) because I totally just wanted them to fuck asap. Some details will probably be wrong too because I haven't seen an episode in a dick-year. AND It's definitely gonna feel rushed in places and it ends abruptly I'm soRRY please don't take this too seriously. Happy reading :)

When at first she sees him lumbering through the streets of White Harbor she thinks it to be a trick of the mind. Sandor Clegane had died beneath that cliff. That drooping scowl, the burned-off flesh, the matted black hair; she'd seen them rot away in her dreams so many times that it'd begun to feel like a memory. She's certain it isn't him. It can't be.  
  
But it is.

Drinking, pacing, staring across the path at the doorway of some tavern as though too afraid to venture inside. Arya's heart skips a beat as she drops down to crouch behind the fountain wall, drawing her eyes over her prey and locking them there. She thinks of killing him right there in the street, avenging her friend once and for all; changing her face and fleeing before anyone notices the blade pressed into his heart.

Instead she remains hidden. _I must wait until the time is right_ , Arya thinks to herself as the brute takes another gulp from his tankard. She wants him to look into her eyes, know that it is her who has put him down.

All at once Arya feels a hard shove against her side, knocking her over onto the wet cobblestone. "Idiot!" She spits, her mouth full of venom.

"My apologies, ma'lady! I didn't see you sitting there."

Arya glares up to see the beggar boy's eyes, blue like her sister's, and feels herself soften. She offers him a curt nod before turning back to watch her prey— only to find him now gone.

Quickly she stands, twirling herself round in a frenzy and scouring the harbor. There's no trace of the dog to be found. Her heart turns to lead in her chest, sinking with dread at having missed her chance until— _Of course! The tavern! He must have gone into the tavern._

Arya bends down to tear into her pack, pulling out her disguise. It's the same face she had worn to kill Walder Frey those many moons ago. She still remembers it all with such warmth, the way the blood had spurted from his wrinkled neck like a faucet. She can still hear in her mind the way everyone he loved had gasped, clutched at their throats and leaked pus from their eyes.

It was a beautiful face, even without the memory sewn to it. So smooth and dark and full of youth; she'd be lying through her teeth if she said she never wished it were truly her own.

Just as she had been taught, Arya slips the face on with nimble fingers, uses her magic to secure it into place. She scurries hastily into the warm glow of the tavern, just barely catching a glimpse of The Hound's massive shoulders as he disappears into the structure. She moves in closely behind him, keeping sure not to let him sense that she's there.

To Arya's surprise she hears no clattering of dishes, drunken singing, or pounding of fists against the tables. Instead she hears something else— something deep inside that furrows her brows and causes her to take a step back in surprise _._ The scent of wax candles and perfumed oil floods her nostrils, just as the sound of filthy whispered words echo in her ears. This is no harbor-tavern that she has followed The Hound into. 

This is a _brothel_.

It takes only a moment for Arya to get her bearings. Bloody sword fights and slitting of throats remain a commodity in White Harbor taverns. No one would have noticed, nay even cared if some wench had driven a blade through The Hound's drunken heart.

 _But a pleasure house?_ Arya thinks as she straightens her clothes, brushes a hand through her silken hair. _A pleasure house is different. A pleasure house is better._

Here, Arya has the opportunity to get him all alone. Naked, vulnerable, distracted; she can kill him just as she had killed Meryn Trant.

The Hound keeps his eyes low as he follows the brothel's painted madame into a darkened room in the back of the closest hallway. For a moment Arya fears she may have missed her chance until at last the madame calls the pleasure-girls in after her, lines them up in a row like little ducks. Quickly, Arya steps into place beside them; puffs out her chest and raises her chin like a proper lady.

The Hound looks terrifying in this light, his pink scar glistening and unable to be ignored. The moment the whores lay their eyes on him their muscles and joints turn to stone, shifting their gazes from the dusty floor to the candles at the edges of the hall. Maybe this was why he had looked so ashamed, so reluctant when she had seen him earlier. Maybe he'd been turned away in brothels like this before.

"Let me have him." With that Arya has all of their eyes, snapped over to stare at her so deeply she fears they might bore holes into her skin.

Looking somewhat unsettled, the madame's lips part as though she's about to offer up some silent hint of a warning. When Arya smiles to show she possesses no fear of The Hound's brutish size or hideous scar, the madame turns and cocks her head to him with her hands locked firmly together.

"Aye," The Hound grumbles, looking her over like a piece of rotted lamb. "She'll do."

The pleasure girls flee the room quickly, as though relieved that it were her instead of them. The madame leaves as well, closing the door gently behind herself and leaving the two of them completely alone.

"What's your name, girl?"

Arya's breath catches in her throat, her spit suddenly feeling too thick and foamed for her to speak. After an uncomfortably drawn-out pause she's finally able to say the only name that can come to her mind, "Arya."

 _Stupid_.

The Hound's face doesn't move, save for a slight twitch in the corner of his eye. She knows then that he's thinking of her and not the whore standing in front of him, thinking back to how their lives had intertwined once before. For a moment, Arya wonders if he knows that she's even still alive.

"Well, what are you waiting for? A bloody marriage proposal?"

She stares at him for a moment, suddenly unsure of what she should do. Certainly it's too soon to kill him yet. Surely she should wait another moment so that—

"Get up on the bed, girl," The Hound's voice slams through the thoughts running through her mind like a battering ram, words low and grating. "Take off that bloody dress."

The words burn her ears, and at once she feels a wave of something she can't quite name surging through her veins. It feels like shame, like guilt at seeing a side to The Hound that she knows she was never meant to. It pulls at her heart like fingers on a bowstring; as though she's somehow opened his mind and strummed through his secrets and desires as easily as words on a page.

Sandor might have killed her friend, but she had seen firsthand that he was no true animal. There was good in him, as deeply buried as it may be. Did he deserve this? To be exposed and deceived in the same manner as the monsters Meryn Trant and Walder Frey?

When all too soon The Hound begins working at the clasps of his trousers, Arya feels vomit rise in her throat.

 _Do it now_ , she orders herself as she clenches her jaws together so hard she thinks her teeth might ctack. _Slit his throat, stab your blade through his eye. Make this stop. For the both of you, please, just make this stop._

"I hope you can take a cock," The Hound grumbles softly, reaching inside his trousers to begin to pull himself out. "I'm a big fucker."

"Wait," Arya presses her hand flat against the space just above his navel and searches through her mind for a second. At last she meets his eyes, forces herself to smile coyly. "Take off your tunic."

The Hound's eyes widen, looking utterly dumbfounded by her words. "What?"

Arya slithers backwards onto the bed, putting more distance between them. For a moment he looks as though he's ready to strike her, ready to make some indignant quip or protest at taking demands from some pleasure-girl. Instead he lets his broad shoulders drop, huffs out a sigh as he takes a large step back.

Wordlessly, The Hound removes the upper layer of clothing from his body, lets it drop inelegantly to the floor. Still as marble, he holds his breath and lets Arya draw her eyes across the vast expanse of his bare flesh. She looks over the plains of his chest, taught with swollen muscles and dusted with dark hair and worm-pink scars. She'd forgotten how large he truly was, feels almost in awe at the sight. Second only to The Mountain, The Hound is by far the biggest man she's ever seen.

"Gotten an eyeful yet, have you?"

Arya shakes her head slowly, tracing the purple veins that spiderweb out just beneath his weathered skin. She draws her eyes to the space just between his collarbone, watches it pulsate like a tiny drum. For a moment she thinks of how beautifully her blade would look buried there. She wonders how much blood a man like that could spill.

The Hound shakes his head and continues undressing. She's seen him before. She'd watched him stop to take a piss along their travels together, stolen glances out of girlish curiosity— but it was never like this. Never so proudly unhidden to her, never so dangerously close. The sight of it straining upright against his belly, violet and weeping ignites something within her that she doesn't quite recognize.

"Come on with it, girl. Or am I supposed to just turn you around and hike up your dress?" When Arya doesn't answer; she sees his brows narrow, shoulders dropping even further. "Ah, yes that's it. Don't want to have to look at me." He takes a looming step towards her, looking so foreign in his nakedness, "Better turn around th—"

At once Arya drops to her knees, wraps her fingers over the cool handle of the blade tucked hidden in the strap of her sandal. She imagines herself pulling it out, slicing those fat arteries in his thighs and fleeing the brothel like a wildling. Instead she looks up, meets his gaze. It's that same look he'd had in his eyes when he'd asked her to kill him that day in the moor; dark, confused, pleading. She feels her fingers loosen around the handle, feels something break inside of her chest.

Then, Arya lets go of the dagger entirely. She scuffles forward on her knees, and she wraps her fingers around his manhood instead.

The Hound hisses in response, deep and laced with pleasure. She'd seen this before; seen boys take themselves into their hands during her time with The Night's Watch. Once, she'd even caught a glimpse of a whore with a cock in her mouth at some brothel in Dorne— watched her suck the head into her mouth as though it were a sweet.

Arya's hands tremble as she slowly pumps her fist, curious at the way the skin slides around it. Unfathomably it grows harder and blood-hot to the touch, sending a bolt of lightning down her spine as she studies it.

"Aye," The Hound warns, entwining those thick fingers threateningly deep into her hair, "I'm paying to fuck _you_ , girl, not your bloody hands."

For a moment Arya wonders if the whores he'd found in the past had always gone straight to the fucking, hurriedly sending him away the moment he'd finished. She gives him a little nod, glances up to see him staring down high above her. It surges pleasure through her veins, hot and dark like molten steel but new to her all the same. At last she steadies the head in front of her, gives a quick swipe of her tongue over the tip like a kitten. It's too salty, too musky, and she has to fight back on a gag at the taste.

 _You don't have to do this_ , the voice inside of Arya's head reminds her as she takes a few gasping breaths. _You don't have to kill him, but you can still leave._

In one swift movement Arya takes the tip of The Hound's cock into her mouth and sucks, hard. His knees buckle so violently she fears he may fall on her, and his sharp intake of breath climbs high over the distant moans in the rooms beside them.

She likes this. Feeling in control, having so much power over such a brute of a man, feeling him quake simply from using her mouth. Growing more courageous and pushing past the flavor of his sex; Arya takes him in deeper, running her tongue along the underside of the throbbing shaft.

"Teeth," The Hound hisses, yanking slightly at her dark locks.

Arya shifts on her knees; welcoming the way the rough floor digs into her skin. She takes him back into her throat, drawing a glutteral sound from him that she knows wasn't intentional. Soon she begins bobbing her head up and down before intentionally grazing her incisors over the delve of his slit.

The Hound reaches out and grasps her by the shoulder, pushing her off of him with a growl. "Aye," he seethes, "You're a wicked little thing."

Still she can see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and for a moment it feels as if he's looking _through_  the face at Arya and not merely at it; though the look disappears as quickly as it arrived. He turns instead to flick his fingers; motioning to something behind her.

"Get back on the bed, girl. It's time for you to get fucked."

Despite the wild fluttering and pounding in her chest, Arya obeys. She moves back slowly onto the bed, untying and taking off every scrap of fabric and leather that had adorned her. All save for the face she's wearing over her own, she's now just as naked as The Hound.

Arya catches his eyes as they light up again, only this time it isn't amusement glimmering inside of them. He draws his gaze over the soft valleys of her breasts, and even though they aren't truly her own she still feels a flush of pride swelling deep within her belly.

The entire frame whines under the weight of The Hound's massive body as he clambers onto it, guiding her hips over to lie in the dead-center of the sheets. His broad, coarse hands take her legs into his grasp, spreading and hooking them to either side of his hips. Arya watches with widened eyes as he looks down, pumps himself in his own hands.

She had always pictured this in her head, pondered the moment some man would bed her. She had always prayed it would be on her own terms, prayed it would never come on some wedding night to a lord she did not want to marry. She never thought it would be in a brothel— never thought it would be to Sandor Clegane. Still, there are far worse ways to be deflowered, Arya reasons; so she closes her eyes and opens her legs a bit wider.

There's nothing but the roaring of blood in her ears as Sandor presses the head of his cock into her body. There's no pause, no cooing into the side of her neck as he rips her open like a page in a book.

"Ah— _Slow_ ," Arya begs, a bead of sweat rolling down her forehead.

He's not even halfway inside of her yet, she realizes in horror, burning and stinging like the bite of a snake. He begins fucking into her anyway, too fast and too hard and _oh Gods she can't even breathe._

"Aye, stop that fake whimpering. I'm no fool," The Hound grumbles, breath hot and sour in her face. "And you're certainly no fucking maiden."

Arya knows she can't take it— doesn't want to try to weather through it. It's a pain worse than being stabbed, a different breed of agony, filling up her eyes with tears of shame. So much about this is wrong, deceitful, horrible. _What could she have been thinking?_ She rips off the face she'd been wearing at once and slings it to the side of the room, desperate for the searing stretch and the inner-turmoil to come to an end.

"Arya— _Arya Stark_!" There's no mistaking the horror in his face, cracking his voice and washing the color from his flesh. " _What in Seven Hells?"_

The Hound rips himself out of her body, pushes himself back against the other side of the room like a cornered animal. He has that same look in his eyes he had when she'd tried to burn clean the bite-wound on his throat— brow raised in primal fear.

Arya chokes back the tears that threaten to drip down her cheeks. "I've come to kill you." She says as firmly as she can, propping herself up on the backs of her forearms.

The Hound doesn't move for what feels like an eternity, arms and back flat against the wall. She can see his chest heaving, jaw parted in a fusion of surprise and shame. He drops his hands to his side, turning pink enough now to match the hue of his scar. "Well now, girl, you've sure got a funny way of doing it."

Arya looks for the words to explain herself. A semblance of an answer rests in the space between her jaws but alas— she can't make her lips work.

"Arya fucking Stark," The Hound hisses, moving closer to her. "Got a vial of poison hidden up your twat? Should I be ready to fall down in a moment, bleeding out of my nose and clawing for air like the late cunt Joffrey?"

There's no more terror, no more embarrassment. What Arya sees in his expression now makes her reach cautiously towards the dagger hidden in her shoes. She can still remember how it felt as a girl when he'd struck her, furious at how she'd tried to stab him in the gut with Needle. She can still remember the way it'd made her ears ring, sent flashes of white between her eyes. 

"I changed my mind." Arya whispers, so low she can hardly hear herself. She feels her breaths becoming faster, still ready to kill him if he lunges forward. 

Teeth bared into a snarl, The Hound lets out a loud huff of air. He sees that Arya's eyes are still fixated between his thighs so he follows her gaze downward, catches a glimpse of the blood smeared over the head of his cock.

"Oh, girl," His voice softens, and all at once, she can see that he understands. "What have you done now?"

Arya sits up on the edge of the bed, pretends not to feel any of the things that swarm in the confines of her mind. She straightens her back, puffs out her naked chest, and though she tries to fight it she feels a single hot tear drip down the swell of her cheek. Ashamed, she closes her eyes to keep more from following.

It startles her when she feels a hand at her knee, pries her lids open to see The Hound crouched down in front of her. She wipes a forearm across her face, humiliated at letting him see her looking so weak.

"Hush, now." He whispers gruffly, standing back up to hand her her clothes. "Wolf girls don't cry."

"You cried. When you begged me to kill you."

"Aye," The Hound snorts, dark eyes lightning up again. "That I did."

Arya looks down at his fist held out in front of her, clutching the fabric of her gown. When she makes no move to grab it, he drops it beside her on the bed and backs away once more.

"Why didn't you kill me?" He asks, sincerely. His words are low, like dark-painted glass.

"Today?"

"No. After the Tarth-Bitch."

"I wanted to," Arya admits, eyes cast down at the floor. "And then I also didn't." She looks up at him again. "I was a child then... I didn't know what to do."

The Hound stares back at her, still naked and open and unmoving. She wonders what he thinks about seeing her like this; wonders what could be running through that dark, pessimistic mind of his. 

Slowly, like a ballroom dance, Arya climbs off of the bed and advances towards him. He inches away from her in response, looking at her like a wounded animal in the forest. He keeps his hands from touching any part of her, even as she presses herself flush and naked against him.

"I'm sorry," Arya whispers into the fur of his chest. "For everything— today, the moor— I'm sorry."

At first she feels him stiffen, muscles growing rigid at the contact. Then at last he softens, relaxes into her embrace and places his hands against the small of her back. She can hear the soft thudding of his heartbeat, galloping against his ribcage like a horse. Only when she lets her fingers, held against the backs of his broad hips begin to glide against his soft flesh does he push her away.

"You can leave," He growls at her, clenching his square jaw tightly. "Unless you've decided again to kill me again."

"No, I—" Arya begins, searches hopelessly for the words. "I want you to..." She trails off, feeling suddenly unsure of what she had even planned to say.

"Want me to finish what I started?" The Hound scoffs at her, shakes his big head at her childish words. "You take me for a fool."

Arya stares back at him, silent. He searches her eyes for deceit, finds nothing there. Still he can't accept it, baring his rotten teeth at her again with bitterness and spite.

"Perhaps your vial of poison is up your arse," Sandor begins crassly, "Suppose you're waiting for me to check there."

When she turns her cheek away he sees that she wasn't trying to humiliate him, wasn't trying to tease him or wound him. He pauses for a moment, rips down the defensive wall he'd just built up before him. 

"If I fuck you," He begins, looking resigned. "I will hurt you."

"You've already hurt me."

"Aye," He muses, glancing over at the dark stain on the linen. "I guess I have."

"Then do it. Take me." 

The Hound shakes his head slowly. "Girl..."

"Are you going to make me beg you?" Arya smirks, mocking the words he'd said to her that day bleeding beneath the cliff.

The Hound snorts. "No, girl. You don't have to beg me."

Arya cocks her head, sits back down on the edge of the bed. She beckons him over, and ever so slowly he obeys; looking more unsure than she'd ever seen before. All that aggression, all the grit and anger that he'd shown towards the pleasure-girl vanishes into the air. 

Ever so gently he closes the space between them, presses Arya back firmly against the bed. He wraps his calloused hands around her thighs, pulls her to the edge so that her arse hangs over the side. Before she can even make a sound his mouth is on her belly, thick beard scratching against her scars as he trails open-mouthed kisses along her skin. Arya keens, arches her back like a stray cat into the sensation. She'd never been touched like this, never been given anything solely for her own pleasure. It courses through her veins like wildfire, filling her up and warming her from the inside out.

Soon his lips begin to travel lower, sending shudders throughout her small frame. When his tongue first strikes against the bundle of nerves above her entrance, Arya chokes back a yelp. He swirls gently against the pearled nub, moves down to lap at her hole and lick up the blood he'd caused there like a hungry dog. Over and over that broad tongue presses against the sweetest of places until Arya begins to feel something rising inside of her, though she isn't quite sure what it is. Too soon the Hound stops, pulls away and runs his fingers over the slickness pouring out from her.

"You truly are a maiden," Sandor muses, admiring how wet she'd become under his touch. He runs it over in fingers, eyes twinkling with awe. 

In that moment Arya wonders if he'd ever fucked a woman who wanted him— really wanted him before. She wonders vainly if he'd ever felt anyone become as wet as her— ever been with a virgin before at all.

"No, girl. I haven't." Sandor answers quietly, and Arya realizes she'd asked it aloud.

It sends a swell of pride in her chest and desperately Arya arches up against him, searching for something— anything— to bring back that rising feeling inside of her. A whine escapes her lips when he pulls away from her to stand.

"Fuck me." Arya begs, heartfelt.

The Hound laughs as he moves in between her legs, shaking his head in amusement. "Impatient little cunt."

With that he places his hands flat on either side of her head, the coarse hair on his groin and thighs tickling again as he moves forward. Once more he places his heavy cock over the slit of her sex, only this time Arya welcomes the sensation. Quickly he begins sliding his cock against her, fucking between her parted lips and grinding softly against her sensitive nub. Arya gasps, begins moving her hips in time to match his movements.

"Get on with it," Arya whimpers again, her voice loud and clear.

At last The Hound nods, takes himself in hand and guides his head down to press against her sore entrance. He flicks his eyes up quickly to meet hers, as if to make sure one last time that this is truly what she wants. She pushes her hips closer against him in answer.

In one long, slow thrust The Hound seats himself into Arya, not stopping until her walls push back against him in protest. She squeezes her eyes shut and turns her head away, but there's something different about the pain this time. It's sweeter, softer, more welcome.

"Sandor," she hisses, biting down against the edges of her tongue. _"Move."_

He obliges her, gently rocking in and out like the undulation of a ship. Arya marvels at the way her body gives entrance to something so large, feels pride at taking him so deep within her. She squeezes her calves around him, admires the sheer power of his hips and the potential strength lying dormant beneath his muscles.

"You're a tight one," The Hound murmurs, leaning over her to rest his forearms against the bed.

After the first few tentative thrusts he begins moving quicker, more fluidly. The pain dances beside the dull pleasure as it blooms deep within Arya's sex, fuses together so well that soon she can scarcely separate the two. When Sandor pulls so far out of her that the flared head of his cock slides free from her pink flesh and drives violently back in, she chokes out a cry. He strikes against something that makes her body sing hymns, lights up her insides like thousands of candles.

"There," Arya whimpers, and he shifts, rocking back to find that place inside of her again. "Please, please, right there!" Like an animal she screeches, whimpers, cries, until finally The Hound clamps an enormous hand over her mouth and holds it there.

"Hush now, girl," he hisses, a hint of pride in his voice.

Arya bites him until he lets go, instead holding back her sounds until tears fall from her eyes. It feels so good— so _good_ — better than killing even. She runs her small hands over his body, somehow needing even more from him. She begins meeting his thrusts with fervor, feels him jerk back away when her fingers brush against his scarred face.

"Are you getting close?" He asks sincerely, his words gruff and strained.

"Close to what?"

The Hound lets out a little snort of air, shakes his head and keeps on pounding into her.

"Well, if you are," he begins, moving even faster, "Then you had better fucking hurry."

Arya lets her hand drop back down to herself, rubbing them over her body and cupping her breasts. She lets her other hand trail lower, running over her soft patch of hair and brushing against her swollen nub. The feeling of her fingertips when she touches herself while Sandor fucks her is unlike anything she's ever experienced before. She presses down harder, rubbing it softly and has to choke back a scream at what it does to her.

"You're getting so wet," The Hound murmurs, looking down between them, as if he himself can scarcely even believe it. 

Pressure mounts inside of her, pulling every muscle in her body as tight as bound leather. Arya's eyes roll back as she climbs the exquisite trail of pleasure, wherever it may be leading her. Then at last, she's there. It feels like an explosion, a giant burst of stars behind her eyes. It courses through her body and rushes over her like waves in The Narrow Sea. The muscles in her cunt spasm wildly around Sandor's cock as she arches and cries out into his chest. He fucks her through it, so hard she can hardly even think.

The Hound follows, dark eyes squeezing shut and the lines of his face pulling together. Arya can feel the muscles of his belly tightening, flexing, and at long last he comes with a growl that reminds her of an angered dire wolf. His hips stutter as he pulls himself out of her; spits warm ropes of pearled fluid across her scar-littered belly. She wonders for a moment if it was anything like what she felt a moment ago, wonders if it could even hold up in comparison.

It takes only a moment for The Hound to come down, nearly falling onto Arya as his arms collapse like two broken branches above her. He manages to move to the side just in time, a mountain of sweat and musk as he stretches his body in satisfaction.

"Fucking hells, girl." He pants softly as he turns his face towards her, nearly smiling through his words. "If everyone who tried to kill me fucked me first, I'd probably be a far happier man."

**Author's Note:**

> Haha thanks for reading y'all!!! :)


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